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Youngest kid of six with an inferiority and black sheep complex, but determined that God saves not just his soul to heaven but the remainder of his manic-depressive life, so others won't say he became a Christian and remained a jerk.


MAIN THEMES

On identity
i won't be transparent before i'm opaque. and you'll get to know me starting from the small things: who my favourite bands are. what kind of movies i like. who are my heroes.

On Christianity
I’m convinced that when confronted with sincere, real love, the Jesus factor will become obvious. But let’s not plant the cross before we carry it. I’m not trying to con you.

On dreams
Some dreams are meant to be achieved. I know that. But maybe other dreams are meant to drive us, privately. Never known to anyone but ourselves.


OTHER THEMES

On melancholy
It is a sadness that, when choosing between crying and sighing, will choose sighing. I'd almost say that melancholy is being sad about sadness itself.

On memory and nostalgia
It saddens me when life moves forward and people decide that certain things are worth forgetting.

On language
I've learnt that the word irregardless is filed as a non-standard word in the English language. That's a lexicographer's way of saying it's not a real word.

On politics
Crowds are fickle things. So when we stand in the thousands and cry against the present government, do we know who we're actually crying for?

On society
People always want the best for themselves. But I want to sometimes take second or third or fourth best, just so that the loser down the road doesn't always have to come in last. It must feel like shit to always come in last.

On growing old
Leasehold property make me feel sad. It doesn't matter how old the family photos are that you put on your wall. It's your family but it's not really your wall.

On philosophy
I ask you, if God loves everyone, and if God is also incapable of loving evil, how can there be such a thing as an evil man?

On a daily basis
One line quips, like this.


CHAT





Wednesday, December 15, 2004
POKER WITH THE DEVIL 5/6

Eight of spades.

He's got the queen of diamonds. The devil throws in another forty dollar chip and I go in. He deals the next card.

I get six. He gets the queen of clubs.

Now, I'm thinking about his jokes about the queen of hearts. Did he really have it or was it all a big show? So far, I've got nothing. He could already have three queens.

(now, if you ever play poker with friends, and you don't get any dramatic hands even after a few weeks, it's not because you're not lucky. It's just that the devil has a penchant of spicing things up.)

One more bet. Eighty more from each in the pot. He gets a two, and that annoys him somewhat. I, on the other hand, get a four.

Last card. A hundred and sixty more in the pot. I can tell he's dying to raise and reraise, but I'm not opening the bets, he is. That annoys him even more. Now, listen to this: it's the last card. He gets his third queen, the queen of spades. Now, I'm thinking that I'm done for, because if he has that queen of hearts in his hand, that's all four ladies. He talked about her. He's always talking about her. Making rude jokes about her. And now, he's got all three other queens. Why would he do that? Talk about her?

Then my card comes gliding in. A five. Is that my money card? 4568. I'm wearing a face like I have no faith in the world but in my heart, I'm grinning from ventrical to ventrical. I look up and the devil's got his eyes on my cards.

"Your grandfather had that hand!" he speaks up. It is only now that I realise how quiet the whole game has been. It's never like that. He's always talking about one incoherent thing or another. "Yes, he had that very same hand. His five was a spade but the rest were just like that." He looks at me and grins. "How intriguing!"

What was his pocket?

He bursts out laughing. I cringe inside - a mistake.

"You can't seriously be asking that, can you?" he settles down in his laughter, shaking his head from side to side. "I've told you, your kind really depress me. You should have seen his face".

I've lost all mood to talk. I've almost lost all mood to play as well. I have a good mind to get up and leave, if not for the five hundred and sixty in the pot. I know my grandfather lost, he lost it all. He probably had a pocket two. Or three. Something miserable and useless. At any case, he never got his seven.

"But for you, my old friend", the devil starts, "I'll let you in on it. Actually, before I tell you what he had, let me first say that your father asked me that same question. I didn't like him. Pompous old man. But I like you. So I'm going to tell you what your grandfather had in his pocket.

I don't really want to know anymore. It doesn't matter.

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Genusfrog [ 7:09 pm ]

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